


I Never Wanted To Dance

by wendigo_alderson



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Abby is a kind of shitty parent, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bellamy thinks clarke is stuck up, F/M, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Misunderstandings, Very small scene talking abt domestic abuse, mentions of abuse, slightly OOC Octavia, starts out happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 12:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14308200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendigo_alderson/pseuds/wendigo_alderson
Summary: It hits Clarke like a ton of bricks: It’s Octavia’s birthday.“Um, what time?” Clarke clears her throat after she speaks, trying to dislodge the invisible lump that has risen up to choke her, hoping no one has realized the squeakiness in her voice. She can practically feel Bellamy’s incredulous gaze burning a hole through her head.“O, I can’t-it’s-” She spares a glance at Bellamy who is now fixing her with a pointed look, not quite a glare yet.“It’s my parents anniversary,” Octavia’s eyes widen in understanding. Octavia and Raven are some of the only people that know of Clarke’s father’s death. She doesn’t talk much about it and her mother isn’t exactly the topic of gossip in the town. Jake was a good man, but a man not known by many, besides the occasional friendly wave.“What Princess, you too cool for birthdays?” Bellamy practically spits, snapping her out of her reflection, as he fixes her with a glare, eyes still managing to rake up and down her body in a way that makes her face heat up.





	I Never Wanted To Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys this was written in such a rush. If y'all are uncomfortable with discussions of Alcoholism then don't read this shit. It's somewhat of a projection piece for me so that's why it's so angsty.

 

Clarke doesn’t consider herself to be a forgetful person. Quite the contrary actually. After her father’s passing she latched on to any pieces of her life she could assert control over, scheduling being one of them. But she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t shocked to realize that Octavia’s birthday was today. 

Her morning is rather dismal, the clumsy boy Monty in her AP Chemistry course accidentally spills his coffee on her leg and manages to knock over two plastic beakers while spluttering apologies and frantically groping for paper towels, but besides that her day was rather uneventful. She knows any semblance of calmness has vanished from her morning however, when she hears giggling and the rapid tapping of heels screeching down the hallway.  Clarke braces for impact just as two pairs of arms come around her back. 

“Hey Clarke!” Octavia blurts out, giving her a good-spirited squeeze to the shoulder.  

“Hey, O, how you doing?” Clarke replies, a smile crawling up her face as Raven offers a simple “‘sup” from her other side.

“Oh I’m great! This morning in Ms. Harding’s class we paired up for the Classic’s unit and Lincoln and I are working together! And, guess what?” Clarke lets out a groan and Raven snickers beside her.

“Oh no don’t tell me-”

“He’s a huge Cormac McCarthy fan!” Octavia yelps excitedly and Clarke buries her face in her hands in mock grief, causing Raven to burst into laughter beside her. 

“I can’t deal with two of you, please for the love of God.” She groans with an expertly maneuvered eye roll.

“Hey!” Octavia punches her playfully in the shoulder as she starts on a rant about how  _ The Road  _ is an  _ “unrivaled cult classic”  _ and _ “better than your shitty art history books”.  _ Clarke opens her mouth to enter a searing tirade on how Davinci could kick McCarthy’s ass any day when a gruff voice interrupts them.

“Hey O,” rumbles the dark haired boy who seems to have materialized out of the dusty vinyl tiles of the school hall. Octavia greets her brother as Raven catches Clarke’s gaze. The dark-haired girl’s face immediately transforms into a shit-eating grin as she makes kissy faces at Clarke, her eyes darting quickly between the blonde and the tall boy behind them. Clarke replies with a rather unfriendly hand gesture that has Raven hiding a snort into the sleeve of her burgundy jacket, catching the attention of the siblings behind them. 

“Oh! Clarke, are you coming to my party tonight?” 

 

And it hits Clarke like a ton of bricks: It’s Octavia’s birthday. 

“Um, what time?” Clarke clears her throat after she speaks, trying to dislodge the invisible lump that has risen up to choke her, hoping no one has realized the squeakiness in her voice. She can practically _ feel  _ Bellamy’s incredulous gaze burning a hole through her head. 

“8:00 at The Ark, come on, same place as last year,” Octavia tells her happily, unaware of Clarke’s inner turmoil. Clarke ruefully thinks how that last year it was celebrated a few days  _ before _ her birthday. A much more agreeable time.    
“O, I can’t-it’s-” She spares a glance at Bellamy who is now fixing her with a pointed look, not quite a glare yet. 

“It’s my parents anniversary,” Octavia’s eyes widen in understanding. Octavia and Raven are some of the only people that know of Clarke’s father’s death. She doesn’t talk much about it and her mother isn’t exactly the topic of gossip in the town. Jake was a good man, but a man not known by many, besides the occasional friendly wave.    
“What Princess, you too cool for birthdays?” Bellamy practically spits, snapping her out of her reflection, as he fixes her with a glare, eyes still managing to rake up and down her body in a way that makes her face heat up. Clarke shrinks under his gaze, stuttering as she tries to come up with an excuse that will appease him while simultaneously not blowing her cover. She comes up empty, and remains gaping at him like a fish. 

“I-” 

“It’s her 18th for fuck’s sake. But I guess your parent’s anniversary must be incredibly thrilling. What, you guys go visit the Queen?” His words are harsh and biting and Clarke finds herself flinching at the disgust in his tone, all sense of flattery fading. Octavia grabs his arm scowling at him, but his searing gaze doesn’t leave Clarke’s face.   
“Bellamy, stop!” She commands and he bites his lip to stem his flow of comments, finally turning to look at his sister. The accusation in his stare remains when he turns back around. Octavia gently grabs Clarke’s upper arm as they stop outside of the cafeteria. 

“Hey, you, me, and Raven will do something next week okay? Don’t worry about it.” Octavia’s eyes flit worriedly across Clarke’s sullen face, filled with empathy and Clarke so desperately wants to hug the girl before her. She resists though, not wanting to cause a scene and add to Bellamy’s suspicion with her out of character display of affection, and simply nods thankfully. 

“Okay, I’m so sorry O.” She whispers, ducking her face down as not to meet the other girl’s eyes. Octavia rubs the blonde’s arm comfortingly, smiling gently. 

“Hey, none of that,” Octavia chides jokingly and Raven adds in a friendly shoulder punch. Bellamy watches over the exchange with an accusatory stare, but refrains from commenting. He only straightens when Octavia steps back, offering a last smile to Clarke before turning back to her brother, grabbing his arm. 

“Ok, we have to go ask Kane something, see you tonight Raven, later Clarke!” Octavia smiles brightly, waving with the arm not threaded with her brother’s.

The two wave back at her a she goes to leave.    
“Enjoy your anniversary Clarke,” Bellamy whispers with contempt as he brushes past her. Clarke clenches her jaw, her fingers curling into a fist but she fights back the urge to reply, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of riling her up anymore. The pinch of her fingernails against her palm almost helps push down the shudder of anticipation that his hot breath causes. Almost.

  
  
  


Bellamy isn’t entirely sure why it upsets him so much that Clarke isn’t coming to celebrate with Octavia. Maybe it’s because they’ve been best friends since Octavia came to Clarke’s side while she tussled with a few boys from the neighbourhood, the dark haired girl quickly joining in the fight to help the rosy-cheeked ten year old in the sandy playground. That they’d be inseparable since their wide-eyes met, dust speckled cheeks and scraped elbows akin to the matching friendship bracelets some of the whisky-haired girls in pigtails wore. Or maybe it was that Bellamy had been excited to see her smile in the dusky lighting of The Ark as she swayed her hips, sweat glistening under the light seeping from the cracked window that Murphy never patched. The way her hair surrounded her sharp features like a bourbon-tinged halo, her whole aura taking on an angelic appearance while making him feel like the fucking devil draped in sin. He shook the thought from his head, not realizing how far his thoughts had spiraled until he realized what road he was on. He sighed heavily, grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly, the vinyl making a soft squeaking noise in response. He expelled a soft “fuck it” under his breath and flicked on his turn signal, following his thoughts blindly. As he slowed to a stop a little ways from Clarke’s house he felt anger bubble in his stomach at the sight of the carelessly bright windows. She wasn’t even trying to pretend as if she were at some fancy dinner with her parents. All ideas of having a mature conversation with the girl flew out the window as he unclipped his seatbelt and wrenched open the door of his old truck in one swift movement. His boots hit the ground with a resounding  _ thump  _ as he slammed the door behind him and continued down the dirt side of the road toward her house. The glow of the evening sky on her picket fence made it seem like some surreal romantic era novella. His mouth quirked up in a wry grin at the idea of Clarke being some picket-fence beauty queen and him, her rogue lover from the wrong side of the tracks. The smile quickly dipped back into his features as he got closer and could hear the muffled sound of the TV from outside the yard. He picked up his pace, marching through the fence with little grace and landing on her front step within seconds. He debated on whether or not to knock for a split second before remembering just why he was here, and his hand flew to the knob. The moment the door opened Bellamy instantly felt uneasy. Something felt...wrong. His thoughts fell away as he heard a familiar voice muffled by the lull of the TV. His rage returned full-fledged and he stomped into the living room,

 

“I can’t even believe you would have the  _ audac- _ ” 

Panicked blue eyes meet him from where Clarke kneels over her unconscious mother’s body. A bruise is blooming on the blonde girl’s cheekbone and her mother is shaking beneath her. 

“Holy shit” Bellamy breathes, freezing up, a feeling of cold fear dripping down his body. For a few moments the two stay frozen, gaping at each other. And then Clarke’s mother sputters out a cough and begins to convulse violently. 

“ _ Fuck,  _ Mom! Come on,” Clarke growls as she turns her mother expertly on her side just in time for the older woman to vomit all over the carpet. Bellamy unfreezes and quickly rushes to Clarke’s side, and he barely registers the pain shooting through his legs as his knees hit the floor beside her. His hands flutter above the unconscious body below him for a moment before he realizes he has no experience with this and quickly drops his hands. Clarke’s hands however are unfaltering, if not a little shaky, as she keeps her mother’s body tilted to the side. 

“Clarke we need to take her to the hospital,” He says weakly, reaching out to grab her arm. 

“No.” She responds defiantley, bracing against his gentle touch. 

“Clarke I can drive her to the hospital just-” Clarke whips around to face him, wrenching out of his grip, tears in her eyes highlighted by the artificial glow of the television behind them, face hard. 

“No. No hospital.” Bellamy extracts his hand from where it remains frozen around the now unoccupied space, pulling out his phone. 

“Clarke, she could die, she needs a hospital!” He bites back, anger lacing his tone, God she was so stubborn even now when her mother was  _dying._ Clarke turns away once more as her mother coughs. 

“We  _ can’t! _ ” Clarke practically shouts, fingernails digging into her palms, her jaw trembling. "Come on Mom..." She adds softly, stroking the spasming woman's snarled hair. 

“Why not, huh?” Bellamy retorts just as stubbornly. She doesn’t respond, shaking her mom’s shoulder as the woman below them groans. 

“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me, cause I really doubt that you can’t pay for help.” He growls. When she doesn’t respond again he unlocks his phone, swiping over to the call screen. 

“Stop!” Clarke exclaims as she grabs at his wrist. He pauses, staring her dead in the eye, her expression pleading.

“Tell me why. Why can’t I call the hospital.” Bellamy’s eyes are blazing into hers, the intensity making her gape, as she internally fights with herself, tears still brimming. At her lack of response Bellamy begins to type in the number. Clarke tugs at his wrist and he looks back up at her with a glare.

“You have ten seconds to give me a good reason or I call the cops.” Bellamy delivers the words with no tone of bluffing. Clarke stutters for a moment as Bellamy silently counts. 

“I-she-” Clarke starts and then falters. He pauses before his thumb resumes to type the digits, pushing away the pang of guilt he feels at her broken tone. 

“My mom works for the hospital, okay? How do you see that panning out for her, huh?” She spits back, venom lacing her words but the underlying fear is blatant from the trembling in her fingertips to the wavering of her voice. Bellamy pauses before he clicks his phone off, dropping it to his side as he grabs hold of her shaking hand. His face softens as he feels how badly she's shaking.

“Okay.” He agrees, his voice taking on an unfamiliar tenderness. The unspoken words whisper through the stagnant air:  _ I trust you.  _ Clarke sighs shakily, pulling her hand out of Bellamy’s grip after a moment to run it through her unruly ponytail. Below them her mother breathes raggedly, and Clarke’s eyes flicker back to her. 

“What can I do?” Bellamy asks, voice soft as if afraid to interrupt the silence. Clarke’s face solidifies into an expression of determination and procedure. 

“Help me carry her to the bedroom, support her neck,” Clarke instructs, already slipping her arms underneath the figure of her mother. Bellamy awkwardly wraps his arms around the woman as well, 

“Alright, three, two-” Clarke and Bellamy stand up together, lifting the woman, eliciting a hushed groan from her mother. Clarke leads the way through the hall, a plain creme path with just two framed pictures adorning the walls. Bellamy notes the curling wallpaper climbing from underneath the strategically placed photographs. He doesn’t have long to observe the yellowed photo of a man, a younger version of the woman in his arms, and a pig-tailed Clarke, as she steers them into a larger bedroom. This room is scarce as well, a few picture frames sitting on the wardrobe, nothing left on the floor, immaculately organized. 

“Here,” Clarke motions, as the two lay the woman down on the sheets. Bellamy straightens out his pants with his sweaty palms as Clarke pulls the blankets over her mother, tilting her head to the side as well. Bellamy’s familiar with the motion, had had to do it to his mother some nights. He stays relatively still as Clarke hurries out of the room to grab something, returning a moment later with a glass of water in one hand, the other clutched around what he can only imagine are painkillers. She sets both down on the bedside table, blonde hair falling into her eyes as she moves in a sort of frantic yet practiced fashion. She tells him he can wait in the living room as she rolls up her sleeves, and he nods softly, respecting the privacy she needs for this. 

He sits there on the tattered couch for almost an hour, listening to the sounds of retching and Clarke's comforting words as she stabilizes the woman. After a while Bellamy grows uneasy, glancing back and forth between the clock as he taps his feet on the carpet. He eventually says fuck it to house guest civility and gets up and walks to the door, considering knocking to ask if she needs any help. Before he can even brace his hand to knock it creaks open and Clarke brushes past him in a flurry of blonde hair. Bellamy gets the sense that she won’t be returning to the room that’s about as homey as a meat-freezer, and watches her as she retreats, glancing at the sleeping figure in the other room. After a moment he moves to follow, padding after her. He finds her on the couch when he enters the room, head held in her hands, palms concealing her face and golden hair veiling her figure in rivulets. He sits down beside her without a word, she only realizes he’s there when she feels the dip in the cushion. 

“Clarke I-” He starts, voice quiet but she lifts her head slightly at his words. 

“You don’t have to apologize, you didn’t know.” She replies gently, sounding utterly exhausted and defeated, her words holding a slight tone of self-deprecation. 

“Still-” He begins again and she raises her head fully, glancing at him from where her elbows rest on her knees. 

“You didn’t know.” Her words are even, face devoid of emotion, a tinge of pain dulling her eyes. Bellamy’s eyebrows furrow, all the hard lines of his face seemingly dissipating in the eyes of the girl in front of him. They stare at each other for a moment as Bellamy reaches out, tucking a strand of curly blonde hair behind her ear, a soft gesture that seems so unlike him she can’t help but feel slightly shocked. The moment of peace doesn’t last for long as his eyes suddenly harden. Clarke frowns, instinctively beginning to move away from his touch but the hand that now cups her jaw keeps her in place. His grip isn’t in any way harsh, it’s a pressure she could easily pull away from but something about the insistence of it keeps her from moving. His thumb slides up the side of her face as a frown creeps over his face. She soon discovers the reasoning behind his mood change when she winces against his touch. His thumb slides back down from where he touched the bruise, an angry purple color against the side of her head, a mark that was easily hidden behind her hair. They'd both seemingly forget about it.

“Who did that?” He breathes, a poorly veiled tone of anger and concern lacing his quietly spoken words. Clarke’s heart races under his touch but she sets her jaw in response, biting her lip as her eyes cast downward. She appears to be poorly fending back tears and the movement causes the boy in front of her to frown even more. 

“Was it your dad?” He nudges, and the sincerity of his voice knocks a surprised laugh out of her, humorless and dry. His eyebrows furrow at this response, but he makes no comment. She leans back against the couch, hair slipping through Bellamy’s hand where it formerly cupped her jaw. She sniffles and let’s out another short humorless laugh, staring up at the ceiling as she struggles to gain composure. 

“That’d be quite the feat now wouldn’t it,” She mutters dryly to herself before looking back down at Bellamy, at his unchanging expression of empathy and sadness. 

“My dad’s dead,” She answers levelly, and Bellamy feels as if he’s been splashed with cold water for the second time tonight. His face morphs again as he connects the dots, Clarke watching him patiently as his eyes widen in realization.

“Anniversary…” He mutters, aghast, eyes flitting back up to hers. The freckled boy’s face then seems to crumple and he mumbles the most broken and guilty, 

“Clarke…” before she’s pitching forward into his arms. It’s like a dam has been broken and suddenly he’s holding her tightly against his chest as she lets out hiccuping sobs into his pullover, fists clutching at the loose fabric. He presses even-pressured kisses into the crown of her head, pulling her fully into his lap as she collapses into herself. It’s such a rare sight, Clarke letting herself show weakness, and it’s a painful sight, but Bellamy holds her through her fragility, holds the girl with bile stains on her fingertips and fire in her blood, and wraps himself around her like she’s a girl worth loving. Her tears begin to subside and she feels a flood of embarrassment at her breakdown. Bellamy seems to sense her discomfort in the sudden straightening of her spine, and he pulls her back into him. She lets herself go willingly, face pressing against the smooth contours of his chest. She can hear the steady beating of his heart and feel the heat of his skin. 

“I’m sorry.” he murmurs into her hair. And she lets him, nodding against his chest. They lay there for a few moments as he strokes her hair and she lies still, letting the exhaustion wash over her. When she finally speaks, her voice surprises both of them. 

“It was my mom.” His fingers freeze in her hair for a moment and she doesn’t have to look up to gauge his reaction, already knows the look of anger she’ll see there. She’s no stranger to his protective tendencies, having been friends with Octavia long enough. She reaches out to grasp his hand with the arm not currently sandwiched between the two of them. His clenched fist instantly melts into a freckled open palm as she touches him, weaving her fingers between his in assurance. 

“I don’t think she meant it...she was just...angry,” Clarke explains, gazing distantly at their intertwined hands as she plays with his fingers. When she glances up he’s gazing down at her affectionately, appearing so much younger as he watches her trail her index fingers across the lines of his palm. His dark-honey eyes dance across her face as he thumbs at her cheekbone with his free hand. 

“Has she done that before?” He asks, voice deep and soft as his gaze caresses her. 

“Hit me?” She asks, glancing back down at their hands as her fingers spasm a little uneasily. He closes his large hand around her smaller one, sensing her growing panic. Her shoulders slump slightly at the movement as she returns her eyes to him. He nods silently, still reading her expression carefully and thoughtfully. Her eyes sweep down as she shakes her head. 

“No.” He nods again and she feels relief wash over her as he doesn’t press. She knows they’ll have to talk about it later but she’s thankful for the momentary peace. A distant coughing sounds from the other room and Bellamy turns his head to look over his shoulder before turning back to look down at Clarke, a question on his face.

“You need to…?” she shakes her head, resting her chin against his chest. 

“She’s ok.” Clarke lets her eyes droop as she readjusts herself on top of Bellamy, his hands coming up to brush against her hips and steady her. Her cheek presses against the warmth of his sweater as he loops his arms around her, holding her close. 

She’ll be okay.


End file.
